


Make My Heavy Heart Light

by Kieron_ODuibhir



Series: Cirque de Triomphe [31]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is Judging You, Christmas Fluff, Class Issues, Earth-3, Evil Bruce is a Scrooge, Families of Choice, Gen, Jokester is professionally annoying, Mirror Universe, Pie, Power of Friendship, Red Hood - Freeform, Wayne Manor, broody Owlman, children are good for the soul, pie for everyone, tradition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:03:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieron_ODuibhir/pseuds/Kieron_ODuibhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in Gotham, and there is no Talon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make My Heavy Heart Light

**Author's Note:**

> 'All the Dying Children' started in February and ended in early November, when Jason Todd defected from the Court of Owls. This is about two months later.

It was a cold, bright night in Gotham.

Some way north of the city proper, the land rose sharply in low limestone hills, known for nearly three centuries as the Gotham Heights. They had been the site of a major battle of the American Revolution, but were long since given over to elegant homes. Many of the estates of previous centuries had been replaced by high-end housing developments, real estate so near the city being what it was, and by far the finest of the edifices now standing was stately Wayne Manor, on sixty acres all encircled by stone and iron, and more subtle, modern security measures.

Tonight, the stars shone brilliantly on a heavy blanket of snow, keeping Christmastime vigil over Gotham. Only a few windows shone at the estate in the Heights, low and golden on the south side of the manor. From the window of the first-floor study, where a fire burned warm in the grate, the Gotham skyline could be seen glinting back at the stars, like a diamond necklace forgotten in the snow.

The master of the study sat with his back to the window, paging through business correspondence at the great wooden desk as though he had never heard of the holiday season. Eventually, however, the sound of his pen and the rustling of paper slowed and stopped. The grandfather clock tocked ponderously through the seconds, and the fire snapped, and all was still.

That state of affairs had lasted a good quarter hour already when the study door swung open, and the very upright figure of the household's only full-time employee entered silently with a tea-tray held before him, perfectly level. He set the tray on one end of the desk, poured from the silver teapot into the sole waiting cup, and passed it on its saucer into his employer's reach.

"Merry Christmas, Mister Wayne."

The benediction was met with a small hum of acknowledgement, and the tips of the master's fingers found the edge of the saucer, but he did not look away from the portrait of a young couple that hung over the mantle. The butler followed his look, and his professional demeanour softened slightly.

"They loved you very much, sir."

"One would hope," Bruce Wayne replied, lightly, as though to rebuff the suggestion that he was vulnerable to sentiment, tore his eyes from the picture and took a sip of steaming tea.

"Mince pie, sir?" the butler asked, lifting the rounded silver cover from a plate.

One corner of his employer's lips twitched in amusement. "Tradition, I suppose," he allowed dryly. He glanced at the wedge of pastry, but did not reach for the delicate dessert fork poised beside it, merely sipped again at his gleaming cup.

The older man hovered for a moment beside the desk, his duty complete for the moment, and then rather than leaving he spoke again. "Will young master Talon be making an appearance? He seemed to enjoy his slice of mince last year."

Irritation chased contemplation off the billionaire's face. "He came to make a report, not celebrate pointless holidays. And no, Alfred. Talon will not be appearing ever again." The old man's eyes widened, and Wayne elaborated with viciously perfect enunciation, "He failed me. Like the one before him."

There was a grey tinge to the old butler's face. "That poor boy," he murmured.

"He wasn't a child, Pennyworth."

"Too young," was the cool reply, "to be a soldier."

Wayne shrugged. "Talon is a _weapon_. So it has been since Gotham's first bricks were laid. Tradition," he added pointedly, tapping his finger sharply on the edge of his cup. "The masses are cowardly and superstitious, and all they understand is fear. Talon exists to create that fear."

Pennyworth's mouth pinched. "Your family has never been part of that _particular_ tradition, sir."

"One can always improve upon any institution. At any rate, do not waste your sentiment on Talon. This one may have been a poor choice, and somewhat lacking in discipline, but at a single word from me he would have cut your throat. Mince pie or no. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly."

"Good." Wayne placed his half-full teacup on its saucer forcefully back on the tea-tray and met his butler's eyes. "Dismissed."

Alfred Pennyworth gathered up the tea service and the untouched pie and carried them to the door. Paused with it open before passing from the room. "You do know that my loyalty has never been because I _feared_ you…Master Bruce."

The last two words were as gentle as they were pointed, the form of address the old man had once used for the child his employer had been, the closest thing to an endearment that had ever passed between them, and Bruce Wayne was left staring at a closed door for several seconds before he scowled, and turned his back on it. His eyes landed again on the portrait above the mantle and he looked away at once, brooding into the fire for a moment before rising angrily from his desk and rounding on the window that overlooked Gotham. From this distance, the city seemed peaceful, wrapped in white light and clean snow and goodwill toward man, but the Owl's lips twisted in a frustrated sneer. Diamond necklace, they called it? Cheap paste, at best. But _his_. And loose in his city were far too many rats.

The fire crackled softly, and one man stood alone.

* * *

At the same time, somewhere in Gotham's East End, another man stood on a shabby footstool, trying to get the attention of everyone in a crowded, noisy little room, and grinning, as only he could, from ear to ear.

His beautiful wife had made pumpkin pie with real cream and butter and fresh roasted pumpkin, the way she said her mother used to, and Cobblepot had sent over a crate of British Christmas crackers and brandy as a professional courtesy, which had resulted in a lot of delightful sharp banging noises and paper crowns. Only a few of the attendees stood enough on their dignity not to be wearing one. He clapped his hands over his head a few times for attention and bounced on his toes, and the conversations and honking of a noisemaker tailed off, and somebody turned down the music.

He grinned again, pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket, and gestured grandly with the attached pen. "Thank you, thank you. It is with great pleasure that I call this gathering to…well, order seems unlikely, but a sort of loose organization. Waylon's with his mother, I know, and Ed said he'd be late. Harley?"

"Here, you great lunk," she told him fondly, handing a slice of pie up to the woman next to her, who was wearing a green paper crown with the grace of a queen.

"Pam?" Jokester asked, continuing earnestly down his (entirely blank) list.

"Present," affirmed the source of the pumpkins. "Which you know perfectly well."

"Hush, Red," Harlequin advised her. "This is a ritual. Process over result."

She knew him so well.

"Jon?" he carried on.

"Yes," said the long thin man tucked up beside the potbellied stove. He was the quiet type, when he wasn't talking about his work, but he smiled back at J, which was good enough.

"Harv?"

"I say thee both yes and no," deadpanned the former attorney. He got more and more sarcastic as he relaxed, and might have been slightly tipsy already. It was good brandy.

Jokester made a show of checking both imaginary boxes by Harvey's name. "J?" he asked next. "Present," he answered himself promptly. "Little J?" There was a brief silence. "Little J?"

"I am never answering to that." The boy in question felt more than secure enough by now to glower up at the ringleader of their little freakshow. He'd taken to bulking himself up in layers, heavy steel-toed boots and stiff leather jackets and quite often when outdoors a strong red motorcycle helmet because, he said, the Talon uniform was so close to being underwear it made no difference, and he was done freezing his ass off.

Harley figured there was a lot of psychological defensiveness being expressed there, but it _was_ December.

Jason would have looked more intimidating without the six-year-old girl sprawled across his legs, pale brown curls pooling near one knee around crumpled purple tissue paper. Ella had decided this new playmate was the best possible early Christmas present, and Jason had displayed a touching inability to refuse her anything, including space on his sofa.

"Present," J marked down with his nonexistent pen. Jaybird had known he meant him, and acknowledged it. He had already surrendered to the inevitable, even if he didn't admit it yet. He'd laugh in ten years when Jokester trotted the name out. Right now, he grumbled.

"Complaining just makes it worse," Harvey advised him, making a small toast with his brandy glass. He would know; Jokester had rejected his first couple pseudonyms out of hand and refused to use any of them, especially Harvey's personal favorite. Only a lawyer would think 'The Bicameral Man' was a good idea. A _geeky_ lawyer.

Ella bounced impatiently against Jason's knees. "Daaadyyy!" she nagged. _She_ liked the list—got really into roll call at school—and her turn was being postponed by the endless digressions of grownups. J winked at her.

"Princess Ella?"

"Here!" she squealed, her hand shooting into the air and narrowly missing Jason's nose.

The nose wrinkled and its owner plastered himself against the back of the couch, which was a much more restrained reaction than he'd have been able to manage even a month ago. Six-year-old was _best_ exposure therapy, but he _was_ looking a little overwhelmed again, now. Operation intervention back in session. "That's everybody!" J exclaimed.

"Hurray!" his little girl shouted, joined by a chorus of less explosive cheers from around the room, because she had everybody in their circle wrapped around her finger.

But _he_ was still Daddy. With that thought, he threw the blank notebook over his shoulder, hopped off his tiny footstool stage, and swept Ella off Jaybird's sofa, unfortunately leaving the purple crown behind. "You ready for pie?" he asked, while the teenager breathed a sigh of relief and then grinned crookedly up at the pair of them. He was getting better and better at looking alive. Within the year, J meant to break him of defaulting back to that blank Talon expression.

Ella shook her head. "Waiting for ice cream," she declared. Pumpkin pie was indeed best with ice cream; his little girl had excellent taste.

"Who's a little princess?" he teased, tapping her nose.

"Jason!" came the pert reply, and since there was no way he could top that punchline, J slung her over his arm and tickled her to delighted shrieks until the front door rattled open to admit a windswept Ed Nigma with a grocery bag slung over one arm. "Ice cream's here!" J announced, and set Ella on her feet with a kiss on the top of her head.

He flopped to the floor as he watched her run over to demand to be served her pie and ice cream, even as the door was shoved closed against the cold. Pam was laughing at Ed's efforts to not trip over Ella while he unpacked the ice cream, Jon had leaned over to whisper something to Harvey, Jason seemed perfectly relaxed on his sofa, purple paper crown forgotten in his lap; J leaned his head back against Harley's knee, and even if his face had never been cut open and sewn back together not-quite-straight, he wouldn't have been able to stop smiling.

It was okay that Santa played favorites. He had everything he could possibly want.

**Author's Note:**

> Should mention that Ella is _not_ an original character, though she's not particularly recognizable as yet. And yeah, Bruce is pretending really hard that he killed both of his missing Talons for failing him. It worked with Dick, who disappeared; Jason's going to be trickier, given he's sticking around like a living insult.
> 
> Okay, so this interlude hopefully begins to establish that most of the time, only people who are actively part of the cape game are mirrored in this 'verse. On the principle that most people are generally decent and if _everyone_ was backwards, Earth-3 would be a hellhole with a serious shortage of innocent bystanders to protect. This is not Antimatter Earth or Bizarro Earth; it is backwards only in very specific ways. So Alfred is still Alfred. And Jonathan Crane is shy. ( ~~And Croc's mom is alive; I don't actually have a good reason for that.~~ And Croc was taken away from his evil aunt by CPS and got adopted as a teenager, I figured it out.)
> 
> Also, apparently I disagree with AO3 about how to spell half the Rogue's Galleries' names. Did DC standardize their spellings and I missed it? (I'm still spelling it Harlene even if they did. Also Eisley. Nigma might be negotiable; I like the letter Y.)


End file.
